


Relics

by Dorksidefiker



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorksidefiker/pseuds/Dorksidefiker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the things she treasures most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relics

In the middle of a vast ocean, guarded by an ever raging storm, there is an island.

The island appears on only one globe in all the world, in the workshop of an old wizard, hidden away from the world. Written across the island are two words, large enough to be seen from yards away: _**GO AROUND**_. The wizard is very careful to avoid the island during his yearly trip around the world, delivering gifts to all who believe in him. The last time he ventured too close, he was chased by storms the rest of the night.

On the island sits the decayed remains of what was once a grand villa. Its walls are crumbling, and much of it is overgrown with ivy and trees that have taken root where they can. It matters little to the woman who walks the ruined halls; in many ways, the villa is little more than a massive tombstone for a civilization long dead.

It is also a convenient place to keep the few things she treasures. One of the few intact rooms houses a vast collection of garments, suitable for all occasions, weather, and her every mood. The fabrics are often fine, the tailoring is exquisite, and she is the height of elegance when she wears them (though there are some who say she is at her loveliest when she wears the simplest of shifts).

 

Another acts as a particularly large jewelry box. The woman is truly ancient, and something of a magpie. There are crowns, tiaras, and diadems, some older than any civilization on the planet she now calls home. Jewels of every type glitter in settings of precious metal, gifts from believers long dead, or things reclaimed from the ocean floor when storm and wave took them. Bracelets, bangles, anklets, rings, and necklaces tumble together in great tangles, a hoard of treasure rarely seen.

Despite the widely held belief regarding women and footwear, there are no shoes. Her feet are bare, callused, and often bear a healthy coating of earth.

She would miss none of these things if they disappeared tomorrow. She treasures the thought behind those that are gifts, but ultimately they are just _things_. She has gone entirely nude for weeks when the mood has struck her; wind and weather bow to her whims, and she feels no shame over her naked body.

But there are things that she guards most carefully, that she could go through every hell imaginable to keep safe. These, she treats like sacred relics, though others might recognize only one as such.

The room they are housed in is lit by starlight. Twenty diamonds lay scattered about the room, shining with captured starlight. One for each year, forced upon her by a Tsar who was not uncaring, but still felt the need to make a great show of honoring the sacrifice of his Golden General.

_"He's their hero, Seraphina, and the people want to pay tribute to him. **I** want to honor him."_

_"Why don't you honor him by sending someone else to that pit and letting him come home?"_

The last five had come to her by courier, sparing her the need to take part in the wretched ceremony. The Tsarina had accused her of indulging in a prolonged sulk, and perhaps she had been right.

It matters little now. Twenty tiny stars captured in diamonds glitter beautifully, lighting the relics most precious to she who has born many names in her long life, but now answers to Mother Nature.

They are her father's things, left behind when he accepted his final posting.

The sword, he had said, was not his to take. It was an heirloom from her mother's family, and while it had served her father well for many years, he had left it with her. It gleams like new in the starlight, carefully polished and kept razor sharp, but it is not what she has come for.

The diary sits untouched where she left it last; she does not need to read it, for she has long since memorized the words within. Still, there is some comfort in the familiar swoop and curl of her father's handwriting, spelled out in a language long since forgotten.

This day, she has come for the least impressive of her treasures, though it was the one she cared for the most. The simple linen night shirt had been a gift to her father -- she'd sewn it herself, and it was the first thing that she had made that didn't look painfully childish (even if it was slightly lopsided, and one sleeve was longer than the other). It is soft to the touch, and sometimes she imagines that she can still smell her father on the oft-worn fabric

Foolishness, of course, and she knows it. Not even the preservative spells that now coat every fiber could have held in the smell of her father. The comforting smell of hair oil, aftershave, and boot polish had faded away decades before she'd even thought of preserving the shirt.

The stains remain, faint though they might be. A pink blob that spoke of raspberry jam launched from a spoon when she had been feeling especially rambunctious. A smear of ink on the cuff. A wide, pale stain on the lap from a spilled cup of tea. Each one is a precious memory of the rare times when she had had her father all to herself.

Sometimes, she thinks of taking the night shirt to the Nightmare King, just to see if any recognition would light Pitch Black's face, or if he would see nothing but a dirty old rag.

She is not sure which would be worse.


End file.
